


A Breather

by Ratzinger



Category: King Arthur: Legend of the Sword (2017)
Genre: Character Study, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Gen, Missing Scene, Parent-Child Relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-21
Updated: 2018-03-21
Packaged: 2019-04-06 05:40:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,983
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14050119
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ratzinger/pseuds/Ratzinger
Summary: The king’s last words hound him. He can honestly not tell if he has heard them in this life or in a dream before the last one. ‘Much is possible in one lifetime, even for you. Waste not another breath on cursing the hand that’ll feed you from now on. You’ll forget about your father much faster than you think.’A meditation on sin, the shock of loss, and contrary self-images.





	A Breather

He keeps waking up.

Back at Londinium, Blue used to sleep soundly, however uncomfortable the pallet he happened to land upon. After receiving news of fathering a son, young Lack had had a change of heart of sorts. He had decided to try his hand at something a little more tenable. Posing as a promising cooper’s apprentice had gone sour quick. So, for a while, Blue and his pa had moved from place to place. He had mopped the floors of the Three Cocks for a wee while. And for sure, that had been the snuggest nook Blue had every stayed at. But after a mix up with some local big nose they’d been thrown back onto the streets. So it went.

‘Who’d trust a hoodlum with no family to his name but his own get to benefit them at their trade? Piss poor odds at that happening.’

That had been Lack’s way of putting it to his son that things weren’t looking up. That had been until dad and Art had bumped into each other again at the docks. It’d been the first time Blue met Arthur. Though he had liked something about him instantly, Arthur had made Blue shy at first and even a little fearful. He had the knuckles and the face of a bloke who dished out a beating as often as he took one. So it happened that time around as well. Lack and Art had agreed upon some things quickly but some others had kicked up dust between them. And although the Born King had wound up seating his arse in a fish tub that fine evening, Blue had shortly after found his way into a world that Art and his pa had shared for a lifetime. And all had been well.

Until Arthur pulled a blade out of stone.

Through sleep he had heard the men chatter moments before they had been turned into corpses–in the river, on trees, in their beds and at their tables. In his dreams, they still talk to each other, hanging from branches high above his head. But he does not want to hear what they have to say.

Having tossed around for hours on end, he gives up. It’s almost as if the Hag of the Mist is crouching by his bedside. What if he really has been marked? He checks his ankles just in case. Nothing. The hag wouldn’t come for him here; she wouldn’t dare. He is being silly. Although, he suspects she must be nearby, swaying on here hideous feet in the nearby marshes, weaving her spell. After all, the king’s butchers had known where to come looking.

He looks up just in time to catch a familiar face being led up the narrow corridors inside the mountain’s belly. Already he has run up to the bars, hoping… for what? Rubio looks wretched-he has to be braced by the guards to keep him upright. Some of his injuries look fresh. And even if the squire hears Blue’s call, he does not acknowledge the boy, turning his swollen eyes shyly away instead. For he is being trailed by the devil.

 

A swift cut and his dad’s gaze freezes forever; as if deep in thought after the last pint of the evening.

_'Take the boy and…’_

Before he can get a grip of himself, Blue hurls a loose stone at the man who killed his father.

‘Halt!’

Someone reaches for Blue’s hand but it is already too late. They come for him, and as he struggles to hold onto the bars one thug sprains his wrist so hard he cries out like a wimp. You dolt! What are you doing? Who’d you think it was?

‘Your majesty, please do not…’

_‘Pillory? No, mate; they’ll put you down for that. You don’t raise your hand against your king.’_

‘Wait.’ The lord of this castle steps in, measuring his tiny assailant with a growing sense of recognition. ‘Good morning.’

He looks unconcerned, if a little surprised. Blue just glares, biting down on his lip in order to keep the pain in check. The guard kicks him in the shin for that, but he can take it. 

‘Your majesty, please! He’s ill; he’s been raving in his sleep and hardly makes sense of...’

But the king does not so much as look at Lady Margaret whose pleading makes Blue feel ashamed of himself. 

‘Hm. Seat him at the bellows.’

 

On his way to the upper floors, he sees that Rubio is being led outside.

The chamber he finds himself in looks a little like a blacksmith’s workshop. Except no anvil, no tools or workbenches. No shackles on the walls either, nor a cot or a pail in sight. ‘tis not for people, that’s clear. They shove him onto a small stump in front of a giant forge, hang their torches in the holsters on the walls, and leave. Blue sits in the half-light of the morning, alone once more.

The air does not smell right here–it stifles with something viscid and heavy. He doesn’t like it much more than downstairs. What should he do? They’ve been taking kids for payment for years; more often now than before. He’s been lucky so far, in thanks to the gang. What now? Will they send him away? Torture him? What for–the guys say Blacklegs have already run an ‘oodit’ on their enterprises or something like that. And Blue would not rat on them, not ever.

Vortigern comes alone.

Folk say that their king feasts on people’s fear. That sorcery eats away at his own soul. Father Tudwal frowns upon such rubbish, as do many other travelling preachers. The king’s their defender and patron, even if not a saintly figure. Blue knows very little about druids and magic and faith, but he does know that this king is a prick.

Underneath the fancy overcoat, his majesty is clad lightly. Now, how much would such royal garments net him on the marketplace? No one’d take them whole: too suspicious. He’d have to talk seamstresses into it first. Shouldn’t be that hard–he’d never seen fabric that glints like pearls before. Part of him would like to touch it. Ladies on the bridge had nice clothes, of course–some of them–but he is sure they don’t compare. Women like handling pretty things, right? They’d surely help him out just as they help out the lads.

As the tyrant sits, Blue realises his thoughts are racing in every which way happens. There’s no bridge-house anymore, and no day-to-day as it used to be. And the ladies are either banged up here like he is, or dead. He’s been avoiding facing him straight up. The king must be unarmed; he looks light at the hips, not likely to be carrying a pouch or anything deadly on him. Art’d make short work of him hand-to-hand. He will–for dad, and for the dead.

‘Not getting a thing out of me!’ he blurts out, instantly embarrassed somehow.

‘Not even your name? How do they call you, young man?’

He half expects a slap to follow as the king removes his gloves, but his stubborn silence is rewarded only with a grimace.

‘A pup among curs,’ he chuckles. ‘Suffering now because of choices that others made for you. Well, fortunately for you one of your own was willing to share his knowledge with us already.’

Hanged men twitch, swaying back and forth under the gathering crows. _Rubio._  The thought sprouts newfound anger under thorns of disbelief and he wills himself to look the bastard in the eye.

‘Are you hungry?’

‘No.’

‘Thirsty then?’

He could do with a meal, of course he could, but shakes his head regardless.

‘Afraid?’

Blue hesitates.

‘No again?’ the king sighs. ‘Lies fall lightly from your lips.’

The Usurper clenches his fingers in an odd way, as if feeling up the air between them.

 

‘This _man_ was panting and bleeding before my eyes, guarding the back of my enemy while at death’s doorstep,’ he begins, barely above a whisper. ‘And you were willing to do the same for him, were you not?’

Up close, Arthur’s uncle does not look like the men Blue has learned not to mess with. The lull of his voice confuses him; it does not go with a man who can demand anything at all of anyone. He is gentle, almost. _Whispering into father’s ear._

It has taken Blue a moment to realise what the lord is saying.

‘Innocence vests you with the valour that sanctifies the wretched and the fools. It made me envious, little one,’ he licks his lips, smiling. ‘Envious. For I have never beheld such frantic determination to save _me_ at all and any cost.’

Something is moving behind those pale eyes. There’s a nastiness to them that Blue has not spotted until now. He shifts further away.

‘He must have been very proud of you.’

As he reaches out Blue comes alive, pushing aside the lump in his throat. Jerking backwards, he spits at him, hitting his majesty on his knees. Vortigern’s impression sweeps ever so quickly between indignation and glee but he leans forward and slides the boy’s cap off all the same.

‘Hey, give it back!’

Leisurely, he offers the item–only to snatch it away again.

‘Give it back, _Sire_ ,’ he corrects him gently. ‘I know it must be difficult for you but it pays to be polite with your king.’

‘Piss off!’

Vortigern’s fine features light up with an ugly orange glow and Blue is suddenly very aware that he is about to make further mistakes. To hell with it, though.

‘You’re not my king! A king protects his people! You monster!’

In a blink he snatches the boy up by the front of his shirt and lifts him onto the wooden stump.

Blue flinches; the man’s knuckles press down hard against his clavicle and warmth spreads in his chest. Wave after wave, each more bristly and nauseating than the last it rolls out and paralyzes all other senses. He must be getting a fever.

_He is a straw goat who will be burned come solstice._

‘All men are monstrous. Who will now protect you from their sin if not I?’

He is spun around. Fire crackles where before there was none. The giant bellows is attached to a curved frame which stretches out straight into the depths of the furnace. And there is a small mouthpiece fitted over the end of the device. Blue realises that you could fit a man inside that oven, close the doors behind him and still he would not burn to death. Not right away at least.

The back wall glistens unpleasantly.

 

‘Each of us has been given a number of breaths under this sun,’ the king speaks softly, his fingernails digging into Blue’s skin. ‘Your common man wastes his daily–whoring, debasing, agitating, murdering, languishing on the credit of his pretentious, empty ambitions.’

He wheezes and coughs as invisible fingers choke him, scratching and searching, groping for something within.

‘Then, when he feels that he is running out of time, he turns to the gods, to soothsayers, herbalists, and druids, and begs for a breather. Another fortnight. Another year or two. Until the harvest is in, until the son grows up.’

_‘I’m gonna kill him! Let me go! I want to kill him! Dad… we need to get him back! His…’_

_‘Stop! Stop it, Blue! We’ll get him. We will. Just don’t be stupid now–you’re alive, we’re all alive because of Lack. Let’s keep it that way, yeah?’_

He should not have stayed behind. Why did Arthur  _let_  him? They could have carried him between the three of them and it would have gone quickly! If only the old, stubborn ass would not have insisted upon lingering! Now he’ll never see him again. What’s more, he wouldn’t even know where to look for his body; where to go to mourn for him.

Lightheaded and stiff, he barely comprehends what the pale-eyed devil behind him is saying. Why is he feeling like this? Has the bastard made him ill somehow? If this is what magic is like, he never wants anything to do with it. It is painful, invasive and vile. Forgetting pride and the bitter anger and resentment he feels, he begs the man to let him go.

‘And where would you go?’ he strokes the orphan’s hair. ‘Who’s expecting you? Who’d vouch for you? I’d rather you stayed.’

It hurts, gods but it hurts so badly.

‘Learn to work here. I am sure some of the inhabitants of the castle could use a touch of fresh air you would bring into their lives.’

‘Please, _Sire!_  Take me back.’

The flames brighten, beckoning at his shivering form. There is a sight in his mind that does not let go and looking away is becoming more difficult by the minute.

‘Your father was very out of breath when we found him. Yet he did not seem desperate to barter for more. Otherwise we would have brought him here.’

‘Here they enact that little dance of theirs in more dire and immediate circumstances.’

In one feverish flash of sorcery-induced foresight, Blue understands what is bound to take place in this room. Having waited patiently, the witch-king clenches his fist with all the immature anguish, fear, and helpless rage absorbed within it. As expected, the spell causes the boy agony, and Vortigern has to support him to keep the child from keeling over in the middle of the sensation. Panic takes hold and a strangled cry bubbles up in Blue’s throat as he rocks from foot to foot. He witnesses himself passing air onto his father only to see it wheezing out of the bloody gash sewn across his throat. Then, with another slow pump of the bellows, Back Lack’s lungs tear open.

‘I am willing to give you another chance, Arthur’s little friend,’ the king whispers, kissing the boy’s brow before letting go.

Just as simply, he collapses on the stone slabs, holding onto his aching chest. He wishes father was here, or Art, or Kay. Anyone. Even through the violent trembles that rack his body, his mind does not stop–what is it with him?–, and he imagines he hears the low humming of a woman’s voice somewhere beyond this pit. It’s oddly soothing, reassuring when he keeps reassuring himself. The pain will pass. It must! And he will live on. He will leave this place, and he will not look back.

But his heart is beating so _fast_.

 

‘It hurts. Here, it hurts here,’ he mumbles. ‘I think I’m dying.’

Vortigern kneels at the boy’s side, almost pitying him. ‘You would be under different circumstances, yes, but that will not happen.

The King of the Britons strokes the child’s hair as the first light of a cheerless day sneaks its way into the cell. His anger has dissolved somewhat, making way for tiredness as the use of magic is still wont to do. He is moderately pleased, however, as he is able to exercise the power more freely than the absence of the last pieces from the tower had initially led him to believe.

 _A king protects his people._  He protects them as he would his own children; even the rebellious ones that he needs to discipline. Catia had spoken her mind to him to the same effect, unknowingly echoing her paternal grandmother while doing so. Strange, that. For Vortigern doubts that he alone is blind where others see some all-transcendent imperative of action. He truly regrets having to liaison with the Saxons as he currently does but he cannot allow them to see how desperately he needs the silver from beyond the channel. Let them think him a mere slaver. Their lifeblood will buy him time until he can deal with the Angles and the Saxons without sacrificing another inch of the island to their colonies. Once all goes as it should, naught will come of Hengist’s schemes and all his people’s losses shall be redressed.

Even this young man he would pardon if not for his unfortunate association with his nephew. He likes the boy, although part of him wonders if he is not simply reliving moments from the very beginning of Arthur’s life. Way back before the reality of having Vortigern’s obstacles between him and the throne doubled overnight started bearing on his mind. Nurturing a viper in one’s bosom has ended badly for more virtuous and steadfast men than him and even so, he could never set aside what is necessary on behalf of the ideal. If Arthur wants to play cat and mouse with him, let him come for the bait. If not… well, what a shame indeed.

 

As the guards return, Blue closes his eyes. The foul smell from the furnace accompanies him well until he comes to again in Lady Margaret’s lap. Here too can he hear the familiar humming. It is the Mage. She is guiding him between this world and the realm of the night. Although the burning heat has left him, his mind is still adrift in a misty sea of images–pictures that he no longer can or even tries to avoid. Only one of them is real, and what’s the point of looking away from that again if both their present reality and sorcerous illusions can be so much worse? As he sets forth over the difficult terrain of fever dreams, the king’s last words hound him. He can honestly not tell if he has heard them in this life or in a dream before the last one.

‘Much is possible in one lifetime, even for you. Waste not another breath on cursing the hand that’ll feed you from now on. You’ll forget about your father much faster than you think.’


End file.
